Their Time
by MockingVenus
Summary: A small peek into the activities aboard the ship. A request by telchineAqualode. Contains:Sexual themes


The versed wooden floors creaked as two pairs of torpid reeling feet purled their way across the gently swaying deck. Night, thick and sable, enveloped them with the viscid scent of salt, leaving all but the lucent stars and waxing moon of memories past consumed. Halcyon was the domain of night within the dream they dwelled. The balmy scent of the archaic cedar ship lulled them into the vicarious sense of security they lost with each rising sun. This was their time.

A secret, they called it. Just until a more sober quiescence reclaimed the crew; but for how long they cared not. Perhaps it was the secrecy of something so spry upon the lifeless ship, or perhaps it was simply these nights for which they awaited in day; but the concord of combined reason favoured to tell them that this was more than what they could find in life. Hands snaking together, they crept nigh silently down to the furthest quarters of the captain's domain. Not a single light was lit until the final doors separating them from the common crew was locked and barricaded a total of eights times.

Her hair was long, a midnight mass of cerulean and onyx fluttering past her shoulders and blanketing the bed she found herself forced upon. If one were to dig deep enough, a thin lock, well hidden by the puissant lush of ebony, would be found to have been dyed a deep tyrian purple. Cosmetics aside, she found her hair to be no more useful than a helve for their nightly affairs; though, it had always been found beautiful in her lover's eyes, brilliantly contrasting the rugged cream of the linen sheets. Skin, a pallid shade of grey, painted effortlessly across her body as each article was removed piece by piece. Clothing from both, long lost to the flux of their excitement, would be found in the morning in neatly strewn piles on the deep ocher floor. Regalia and vesture were luxuries never found necessaries when clothed in the bulwark arms of a lover.

Her eyes were coruscating, nearly incandescent in the muted light of the cabin. It was agreed that a lovelier shade of aubergine never existed within this stream of time and space. She was reminded of it nightly. Such acts, she found odd from her seemingly phlegmatic inamorata; however a personality can quickly bend when inebriated with infatuation. Such a shame, her paramour thought, to have such resplendent eyes sheltered from the world by their pair of antiqued goggles, worn daily to veil the world from her piercing stare. Though, her eyes were a gift only to be seen by her keeper of night and heart.

Their passion began as slowly as it always began. Lackadaisical hands grazed taught bodies, each reaffirming the others excitation in a building dance of sense and desire. Each furbished the others body with their own, a gentled salted sweat lingering between the too, long forgotten in the tumult. Motions grew faster, palms insatiable in their desire for flesh. Moans began to accompany the air as their voyages began moving lower. The atmosphere shifted, their fervor then overcoming the sense of intimacy.

The room was ablaze with heat and clamor. To each, time had no meaning. There were no walls, no floor, no crew, no ship, no ocean. The world was an empty concept, void of all, save for each others touch. Onward they traversed into the scarlet nihility, all concern long cast into the shadows. Faster and faster they escaped the husk of their cosmos, transcending to a world of their own. Time's winged chariot, as abandoned as it was, chased them ever closer as the blaring crescendo swelled withing them, forcing cries to echo through the night.

The fall was their silence, allowing their thunderously beating four chambered blood pumps to speak for them. The waves swaying the ship served to pull them each back to the corporeal world, time finally placing its ataractic grasp upon them both. Torpor lingered within the room allowing a lenient passiveness to take centre. After moments of glowing dormancy, a single bleary arm rose from its owner to grasp the figure beside. The gentle thrum of nightly breathing was a calming sentiment, threatening to convince the elder to stay where she lie, though reason pulled her by the unstaunched heart strings, leading her to collect her clothes and leave.

The versed wooden floors creaked in a melancholic lilt as a single pair of feet crossed the weathered deck. Brisk dawn air mitigated the sinking vigor of passion on her skin. Braids whipping back and forth, a bitter sweet grin reforming her countenance. She could already hear the cacophony of fists pounding on her lovers door, begging for insight into the plans of the day. Chaos was the day. Though the morning robbed the vessel of her serene presence and the night of its swarthy tresses, it was not spiteful. In exchange, it gave stolen glances, hermetic moments, and hope for when it would once again become their time.


End file.
